


Sex on Wheels

by doodledinmypants



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: I blame Kiah, M/M, Not Beta Read, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Porn Without Plot, not brit-picked, roller-blading shenanigans, totally not crack, very tight pants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-16
Updated: 2012-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-29 15:50:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doodledinmypants/pseuds/doodledinmypants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock asks Lestrade to teach him to roller-blade, and it's all just a thinly veiled excuse to have hot sex in tight shorts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sex on Wheels

**Author's Note:**

> Don't judge me. I accepted this challenge while drunk.

“Detective Inspector,” Sherlock said, “can you teach me how to roller-skate?”

The question came out of a clear blue sky, as far as Gregory Lestrade was concerned, and it took him a moment to process the question.

“What,” he replied intelligently.

“Roller-skate,” Sherlock repeated slowly, in that way he did that made the detective inspector feel his ears heat up and his teeth grind together. “Or, rather, roller-blade. If there's a difference. Can you teach me?”

Lestrade blinked rapidly at him. “Where did this come from, then?” he asked.

“It's for a case. Never mind the details. Private client.” Sherlock was impatient, clipped. He staved off further inquiry with a sharp gesture of his hand. “I've already observed that you have two young nieces, around the correct age, and that this past weekend you were teaching one of them—Both? Yes.—how to roller-blade.” Before Lestrade could draw breath to ask the obvious question of _how_ , Sherlock was off again, one step ahead as always. “The photograph on your desk, extrapolating from the age of the photo itself and the ages of the girls in it, places them currently at seven and nine. When I saw you last on Friday, you didn't have that scrape on your palm or the slight limp in your left leg, favoring a stiff knee. You also keep rubbing your lower back and calves when you think nobody is looking, indications of a strain, but one to which you find it too embarrassing—“

“Yes, yes, all right,” Lestrade cut in. “Spare me the full workup. I don't pretend to understand how this is important, but I don't think you'd have asked on a lark.” Sherlock gave him an eloquently disdainful look. “Right. Exactly. So, when do you need this, er, 'specialized' training?”

“As soon as convenient. Sooner, if possible. Will tomorrow evening do?”

“Would it matter if I said 'no?'” 

Sherlock flashed a brief, tight smile at him before his coat billowed away out of the office. It was as close to thanks as he ever gave. Lestrade huffed out a sigh and leaned back in his chair, stretching his back a little and wincing. He was getting too old for this.

…

Lestrade met Sherlock in the location the consulting detective had texted him, wondering why he was even going along with this business. While he owed rather a lot of his success on difficult cases to the younger Holmes, it was Sherlock who needed Lestrade more than the other way around. Oftentimes, the detective inspector felt like nothing so much as a glorified babysitter, complete with the hovering elder Holmes brother lurking watchfully from the shadows. If he was being honest, however, he had to admit to himself that he didn't just allow Sherlock in on his cases for Mycroft's peace of mind (or thinly veiled threats/demands/bribes). He didn't even do it to keep his own watchful eye on a potentially dangerous, easily bored, drug-addicted genius. Despite how prickly the younger man was, how infuriating, Lestrade has taken something of a liking to him. 

At first it was out of fascination with the way he could make those lightening-quick deductions off of a stray cat hair or a smudge of mud on a boot. Then it was more like pity, realizing how lonely it must be, trapped in the mind of a near-mad genius and everyone else around is _so very slow_. The pity was swiftly erased, because it was hard to pity a man that obviously had no tolerance for that sort of nonsense, and in its place a grudging sort of affection crept in. Lestrade had never had children of his own. It was a major source of contention between him and the wife, when they were together, her not wanting kids. It was no wonder he doted on his nieces so.

That paternal affection grew a bit less platonic in nature as time wore on. No matter how good Sherlock was at keeping people at arm's length, there was an inevitable draw to him. He was beautiful in an alien, angelic way, with a face that would have looked more warm and realistic if it had been carved from marble. Lestrade knew himself well enough to know when he was attracted to someone, and he also knew well enough to keep it a very closely guarded secret. Not even the great consulting detective could pry it from him.

At present, the only thing Sherlock was getting from him was a stern lecture if he didn't show up within the next five minutes. Lestrade surveyed the abandoned skating rink critically. It was in poor repair, patches of drywall crumbling and exposing the beams beneath, but for all the dust and debris the smooth wooden floor was mostly sound. It looked as though someone had taken a push broom to it recently, sweeping the worst of the mess to the edges of the rink. Lestrade set down his duffel bag with a dull clunk and listened to the muted echo from the domed ceiling. 

“This is trespassing, you know,” Lestrade informed Sherlock, who had come out of the door to what he could only presume was an office of some sort. 

“The city owns the deed to this place now,” replied Sherlock. He shrugged one shoulder gracefully as he stooped low to inspect the duffel bag. Not even touching it yet, but Lestrade knew he'd catalogued the entire contents without so much as opening the zipper. “It's technically public property. More or less.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. There was no point in citing him on this. “The sooner we do this, the sooner we can get out of here.” 

Unzipping the duffel, he drew out a new pair of roller-blades, knee and elbow guards, a helmet, and a pair of tight lycra shorts. He handed the lot over to Sherlock, who actually looked surprised at the shorts. “Did you think you were going to skate in those trousers? Go change.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but to Lestrade's great relief opted for silent obedience. After all, he'd requested this meeting. It was almost as though he realized that the detective inspector wouldn't put up with any complaints if he wanted what he'd come here to learn. Fancy that. Lestrade could almost get used to this.

While the consulting detective slipped into the supposed office to change, Lestrade kicked off his own trousers and shrugged off his polo shirt, leaving him in a tee-shirt and shorts like the ones he'd given Sherlock. He wasn't badly built for pushing fifty, and he checked himself in one of the dusty mirrors before strapping on the roller-blades. The pads and helmet had gone to Sherlock—buying him roller-blades and shorts in his size had been expensive enough, he could use hand-me-down safety equipment for the sake of this... experiment, or whatever it was.

Sherlock emerged from the room once more, this time in the shorts and an undershirt and the pads (but not the helmet, Lestrade noticed), looking for all the world like a newborn foal taking its first wobbly steps. Lestrade had to bite hard on the inside of his cheek not to laugh. Sherlock scowled at him. “It's not funny,” he said.

“I'm getting a picture of this before we're done,” Lestrade promised him. The scowl darkened. Lestrade grinned. “Looks good on you. Helmet?”

“Didn't fit,” Sherlock said. “Your head is tiny.”

“Or yours is huge.” Lestrade shrugged. He wasn't too bothered. They had a wooden floor instead of concrete, and he doubted they'd be going very fast. 

Sherlock swayed dangerously on the roller-blades, even holding the wall. “This is harder than it looks. Could we get to the instruction?”

Leave it to the consulting detective to sound impatient and dignified even as he was bobbling about on skates. Lestrade glided over to him and took him by the elbow, coaxing him away from the wall until Sherlock was standing with only the detective inspector for support. To his credit, Sherlock did not cling or slide his feet around in panic, though he was incredibly tense. He'd have to change that if he didn't want to fall on his face when he really started moving. Lestrade was suddenly reminded of the time he and his younger brother had put their sister's doll boots on the cat, and he couldn't help the chuckle that escaped him.

Sherlock, predictably, bristled. “I'm glad this is all so amusing to you, Detective Inspector,” he said crisply. “Do keep in mind that a woman's life could be irrevocably changed by the data I gather here.”

“Yes, of course.” Lestrade sobered quickly and eased his hand away from Sherlock's arm. “Right, so we'll start by just sort of walking. Move your right foot a little bit forward—don't lift your foot just yet, there, like that—now lean your weight with it, and then the left. Just so. Like you're shuffling across the carpet, or an icy road. Keep your toes pointed slightly out.”

Sherlock did, and Lestrade felt a disproportionate sense of pride in the fact that he didn't fall or flail his arms around. He carefully held his hands out to the sides for balance and did exactly as Lestrade told him, sliding one foot forward and then the other. Soon, he was gliding along in short, choppy steps. “It's much easier now that I'm moving,” Sherlock observed, sounding a bit proud himself.

“It is. You're doing really well.” His nieces would have been doing circles around him by now, but that was the benefit of youth. Not that Sherlock was particularly old, but Lestrade knew from experience that roller-blading was a young person's sport. Much easier for those with lower centers of gravity. “All right, now shift your weight to one foot and hold there for as long as you can, sort of lean into each 'step' with a little lunge. Then the other, when you feel like you're starting to slow down. Push, push, one, two—there, good!”

“I'm not your nieces, Lestrade,” Sherlock reminded him, though he was smiling a little as well. He seemed more relaxed now that he was getting the hang of it, rolling more smoothly across the polished wooden floor. Generally a graceful and well-coordinated person whenever he moved, it only seemed fitting that he find roller-blading so natural an extension of that finesse.

Even as Lestrade was admiring the long sweep of Sherlock's body as he all but floated around the rink, the consulting detective hit a rough patch of floor where he hadn't quite cleared away all of the plaster dust, and he went into a stumble. Lestrade was at his side almost immediately to steady him, but Sherlock had already gone into a windmilling mess of flailing limbs, and he took the detective inspector down with him. So much for that innate elegance. 

Lestrade felt the air leave his lungs in a jolt as he hit the floor flat on his back, with a certain gangly Holmes crashing on top of him to ensure that he didn't get his breath back for half a minute. Sherlock swore and muttered and tried to extricate himself, only to forget that his roller-blades had wheels at the toes, making it all but impossible for him to gain any traction with his feet. He skittered and slipped, and Lestrade tried to help by pushing him up and wheezing something about sliding his foot forward, but they only ended up more entangled than ever. Sherlock's lean thigh was snugged up quite firmly against Lestrade's crotch, and their faces were mere inches apart as they panted from the exertion. It was about then that Lestrade regretted his decision to wear lycra, as his erection was quite clearly outlined in the black, clingy fabric. Surprisingly, so was Sherlock's.

They couldn't ignore that they'd entered into some incredibly awkward territory. They _could_ ignore it, of course, just get off the floor and dust themselves off and pretend it wasn't happening, but neither of them seemed willing to break the stare first. Lestrade wasn't quite sure who had started the staring contest, but there they were, breathing hard and looking into each other's eyes, probably so that they wouldn't look to the next obvious place. That didn't stop them from _feeling_ it, pressed up against each other as they were. A slight flush was creeping up Sherlock's neck. Lestrade swallowed. 

“Shift your right foot under you,” he said. He didn't know why he was whispering. “Keep your weight over the wheels as you stand up, and slide your left foot toward you.”

Sherlock started to do just that, but with a grunt he lost his balance and flopped right back against Lestrade's chest. They both uttered muffled groans, for entirely the same reasons. 

“Maybe if we rolled over,” Sherlock said, and Lestrade didn't think it was his imagination that the younger man sounded a bit breathless, and not just from the exercise or the fall. “You can stand up, and then help me.”

It was a sound theory, but when Lestrade shifted his weight so that their positions were reversed, it didn't seem to make him want to get off the floor in any more of a hurry. Instead, the friction between them only grew more heated, and Lestrade realized with a shock that Sherlock was rubbing desperately up against him. 

“Too tight,” he said between gritted teeth. “Bloody... Lestrade, were you trying to kill me, or just cut off the circulation?”

“What?” Lestrade's response was understandably slow, as he currently had an extremely randy Sherlock rutting against him. “How is this my fault?”

“Completely physiological response,” Sherlock hissed, arching his back in a way that made Lestrade go cross-eyed. “Increased blood flow from the skating, circulation cut off by the poor fit of the shorts—“

“Don't you dare try to logic this away,” Lestrade growled, grinding right back down on him and eliciting a sound from Sherlock he wouldn't mind hearing again. And again. “You're the one trying to rub one off on my leg.” The _like a dog_ is implied, but not spoken.

“Shut up, Lestrade.” And Sherlock curved his back again, this time to crash his mouth against Lestrade's. The kiss was inexpert, almost violent, more teeth than was comfortable, but Lestrade moaned into it and gave as good as he got. 

Somehow, Lestrade got his knees underneath him, and he wished he'd at least got an extra set of knee pads now, but he was more stable this way. Bracketing Sherlock's writhing hips with his thighs, he tugged down the stretchy waistband of the shorts until the flushed length of Sherlock's arousal was free. He shoved his own shorts down over his hips, then took them both in hand and gave a long, firm stroke. Sherlock made a low, guttural sound and bucked up into Lestrade's fist impatiently. 

The absurdity of the situation only made it more erotic, somehow. Here they were, two grown men getting off in an abandoned building wearing tight pants and roller-blades. One of the men being, as far as Lestrade could tell up until this point, completely uninterested in sex. Just went to show that the great Sherlock Holmes was capable of such base human urges like the rest of them, after all. It was oddly comforting. 

Sherlock came with a bitten-off shout, and Lestrade's curled fingers were suddenly slicker than before. A couple more strokes and he was right there after Sherlock with a choked groan of his own. 

As Lestrade automatically made his way to his feet, carefully shuffling back over to the duffel bag where he knew there were a couple of athletic towels he could use for clean-up, the reality of what he—what _they'd_ just done hit him hard enough that he nearly fell over again. He'd just given a frot-job to Sherlock Holmes. In roller-blades. It was right about then that his threshold for ridiculous was overloaded, and he burst out laughing helplessly. 

“What?” demanded Sherlock, and Lestrade was almost sobered by the brittle, wary way the younger man eyed him, even as he tried to pull up the shorts to cover himself. Almost. He wiped himself clean, then tossed the towel over to Sherlock, who caught it, his nettled expression shifting to bemusement.

“Just look at the two of us,” Lestrade said, gesturing between them. He giggled again, shaking his head. 

It seemed that Sherlock got the joke, then, because his mouth twitched up at the corners like they'd been set with fishhooks, and then he was laughing, too. He mopped up the worst of the mess, scrunching up his face at how rapidly it cooled on his belly, then adjusted his clothing as well as he was able from a half-sitting position. Lestrade finally took pity on him and skated over to offer him a hand up. 

Sherlock held onto his hand a moment longer than necessary, examining it, as though he hadn't experienced the evidence of whatever he saw there just moments ago. “Thank you, Lestrade,” he said, his mouth looking awkward around the words, “for... this.”

Lestrade wasn't sure if he meant the roller-blading lessons or the wank, or both, or if it mattered. Sherlock Holmes just _thanked_ him, and that was enough to knock the wind out of him all over again. “Call me Greg,” he offered, like it was no big thing. “You want to try some more?”

Sherlock's eyes flashed at him, and Lestrade could feel a jolt of heat in his belly despite not having the refractory time he used to, and then the consulting detective seemed to realize that he meant the skating. “Oh. Yes, of course. The data.”

Lestrade grinned, and continued his instruction as though they'd never left off. 

-End-


End file.
